Verte Violette
by Selina K
Summary: There's something different about England.  As usual, France can't help himself.  De-anon from the Hetalia Kink Meme.  Pairing is France/fem!England.


When France leans over England's shoulder to whisper his usual greeting in her ear (Care to join me later, _ma chere Angleterre_?), he is rendered momentarily speechless by the faintest whiff of violets clinging to the pale column of her neck. It is an invitation to explore more so he accepts and inhales deeply. The violets are now joined by something fresh and green, reminding him of the gardens in Toulouse after a brief burst of spring rain.

Lost in contemplation of what might have led to this startling change in her usual scent (soap is serviceable but oh so boring), he barely dodges the open palm aimed at his cheek.

"What did I tell you about invading my personal space, frog?" England settles for a quick elbow to the ribs, but centuries of experience have honed his reflexes and France dances out of her range with an easy laugh.

"That I need to be more discreet when we are outside the bedroom," he replies with a wink and leaves a sputtering England behind to find his assigned seat across the room.

* * *

><p>France is not usually so distracted during meetings. But today he finds himself shifting in his chair more so than usual, enough to earn him an annoyed glare from Germany. With a sigh, he rolls his shoulders and turns his attention back to Switzerland's presentation on current banking issues. While the subject is one of importance to him, given the recent downgrade of his credit rating, his thoughts, as well as his eyes, keep turning to England. At one point he catches her kneading the muscle at the back of her neck during a particularly heated discussion on Greece's financial situation. France imagines that her fingertips will now carry the subtle fragrance of violet stems and thinks about all the other areas where she may have applied her new perfume: the hollow between her clavicles, the crook of her elbow, the dip at the end of her spine.<p>

His mental exploration of England's body comes to an abrupt end when Germany bangs a gavel against the table and calls for a ten minute break. On his feet immediately, France wastes no time in securing the empty seat next to England.

"What do you want?" she snaps at him, her eyes barely straying from the papers she's signing in front of her. The surly tone of her voice is meant as a warning, one France willfully ignores as he drapes an arm around her and playfully tugs on one of her honey-blonde pigtails.

"I thought perhaps we could discuss a few things in private. My room or yours, I'm open to either arrangement," he suggests in a low, seductive purr that seems to work on anyone other than England (not that he would ever stop trying).

England's response is a wild swing at his eyes with her pen. She must be rather tired, he notes with amusement and not a small bit of relief as he captures her wrist effortlessly. If he had baited her earlier in the day, he might have needed an eye patch at tonight's cocktail reception. A quick twist and the pen falls to the ground, useless. Before England can wrench herself free, France turns her wrist over and lifts it to his nose. The scent is more complex this time; yes the violets are still there but now he detects...

"Irises and heliotropes, with just the barest hint of white musk," he says huskily as he watches her emerald green eyes widen behind the lenses of her glasses. "The violets help to lighten the floral bouquet, keep it from being too heavy." He nods in approval. "Very nice, _Angleterre_. I think it suits you rather well."

There is one other note he does not mention, one that twines around the flowers and the musk, a heady aroma that France thinks is England's own. He would've liked more time to savor it, but England is already recovering from her shock and is starting to struggle against him. Regretfully, he loosens his hold on her and allows her to reclaim her wrist.

At first she stares silently at him. Then, "I don't know what you're talking about, you git." England stuffs her papers in her briefcase, her head lowered in an attempt to hide the bright spots of color on her cheeks. She hurries away without another word but France is not particularly concerned.

He knows that he will have another opportunity to tease out all the notes in her perfume.

_Le fin?_

**Author's Note**: England is wearing Verte Violette by L'Artisan Parfumeur.


End file.
